


Like a Virgin

by rubyofkukundu



Series: Like a Virgin [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexuality, Friendship/Love, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John discuss Sherlock's virginity (or rather, his lack-thereof).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Virgin

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/3722441.html>
> 
> Contains mild spoilers for _A Scandal in Belgravia_.
> 
> ***
> 
> Written for the following prompt:
> 
> What I want is a fic where Sherlock and John are just sitting there in Baker Street and suddenly Sherlock says, "I'm not, you know. A virgin."
> 
> My preference would be eventual/future Sherlock/John, possible past Sherlock/Sebastian or Victor or whoever the author decides. But - author's choice, of course.

John's halfway through watching an episode of _The Antiques Roadshow_ when Sherlock says, "I'm not, you know."  
  
"Not what?" John looks over to where Sherlock's sitting at the table, a laptop and a sprawl of papers in front of him.  
  
Sherlock finishes typing a sentence and looks up. "I'm not a virgin." His gaze shifts to the TV and he wrinkles his nose. "Good God, that is _not_ Jacobean. How do these people call themselves experts?"  
  
John glances at the TV to find them inspecting a chest of drawers. He frowns back over at Sherlock, but Sherlock's busy typing again. For a moment, John wonders if he's mishearing things.  
  
"Is that it?" says Sherlock. He's glaring at the laptop screen. "No response? No, 'Oh, how shocking?' No, 'That's not what I was expecting?'"  
  
John pauses. "Are... Are we still talking about the chest of drawers?"  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Of course not." He throws himself back in his chair and looks up. "I am not a virgin. There. You have it. Now you can go away satisfied."  
  
John purses his lips. "You think I want to know?"  
  
"I don't think, John, I know." Sherlock gestures at the laptop. "I _can_ see what you've been Googling."  
  
"Ah." John had almost forgotten about that. "Sherlock, I was just..."  
  
"Intrigued." Sherlock sneers. "Oh, they all are."  
  
"Sherlock, look." John takes a breath and stares at the floor. "I'm sorry, ok? I heard Mycroft make that jibe at the palace and the tone he used and I was... I thought you might have been a little offended, but then you got that new ringtone..."  
  
"Text message alert tone," snaps Sherlock.  
  
"Right," says John. "Text message alert tone. And I..." He runs a hand over his face. "It's none of my business; it's really not." He catches Sherlock's eye. "I'm sorry."  
  
Sherlock looks at him. After a moment, Sherlock's lips twitch and his gaze refocuses to a point over John's shoulder. His nose wrinkles again. "Oh, for God's sake, it's been painted to look like it's 50 years older than it actually is. I've seen more convincing antiques in _Ikea_."  
  
***  
  
Sherlock must have accepted John's apology, because they don't talk about it again. That is, until almost a week later when they've both finished breakfast and are busy scouring the papers.  
  
Sherlock tosses _The Telegraph_ over his shoulder and picks up _The Guardian_. He turns to the first page and sniffs. "I was 17 at the time."  
  
"What?" John looks up to be greeted by a wall of newsprint.  
  
The newspaper shudders as Sherlock turns the page. "I was 17, barely. He was at least six years older."  
  
It's only then that John realises what they're talking about. His stomach twists with guilt. "I don't..."  
  
"Victor Trevor," says Sherlock from behind the paper, enunciation crisp. "Reasonably good looking by conventional standards, if that's what you're after. I wasn't. His father was a strange man. One of my lecturers and not quite what he seemed; a hint of Cockney behind his Australian accent and some sort of tattoo at the back of his neck that he always tried to hide. Anxious too; he was jittery and had been growing more so by the week. I wanted to find out why." Sherlock flicks the newspaper out to straighten it. "His son lived at home and, being reasonably close to my age, was a good target. I didn't plan on it as a means of investigation but I'd tailed the son to a bar; he was clearly interested, so I took advantage. Result: easy access to the family home."  
  
John coughs, not entirely comfortable with the conversation, but Sherlock opens up so rarely that he's loathe to make him stop.  
  
"Turns out the father had been a well-known football hooligan in his youth. Decided to give it up, so moved his young family to Australia for a clean start. While over there, he got himself an education, an accent and a nice academic career. They moved back to the UK a good few years later, and he thought no-one would recognise him from the old days as long as he kept his Tottenham Hotspur tattoo covered up." Sherlock sniffs. "He was wrong, of course. One of his fellow fans had found him and started to blackmail him, which explained the anxiety. Unfortunately, the stress and the size of his waistline got to him before I could. He died of a heart attack a few days later."  
  
"Oh," says John, not sure if he's more saddened by the story or the edge of disappointment in Sherlock's voice. "Did you..."  
  
The paper rustles again as Sherlock turns the page. "Anal. Oral. Intercrural..."  
  
"I didn't mean..." starts John.  
  
"And of course there was the manual st..."  
  
"Sherlock!" interrupts John, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. "I don't want to know. It's none of my business."  
  
The paper is put down with a snap and Sherlock gives John a long look over the top of it.  
  
"It's really none of my business," repeats John. "Look, I'm sorry if I upset you. And you were right: what you do or don't do in the bedroom has nothing to do with me. I won't pry any more. I'm sorry."  
  
Sherlock sniffs and picks up his coffee cup, giving John a sidelong glance as he takes a sip.  
  
After a moment, Sherlock declares, "I didn't enjoy it to be honest. Certainly, it was fine, yes, but I was left feeling rather," he purses his lips, "bored. And when he put his..."  
  
"Seriously," says John, desperate, "please stop. I don't need to know the details."  
  
"Why?" Sherlock frowns, leaning forward. "Talking about sex; that's what friends do, isn't it?"  
  
"No." And John laughs without meaning to. "God no. Not like this they don't. It's normally more," he waves a hand, "boastful. And there's certainly less about dead lecturers."  
  
Sherlock laughs along too. He sits back and takes another sip of his coffee.  
  
John looks at him, thoughtful. "This isn't about you trying to have a normal conversation, is it?" John scratches at his cuff. "Look, ignore what I said. If you need to talk about it, or anything, I'll listen, ok? Anything at all."  
  
Sherlock returns the gaze, and appears to consider the offer because the next thing he says is, "I never tried it again. As a way of gathering information it's very effective, but I couldn't be bothered to put up with any more of the tedium."  
  
"Oh," says John. He glances out of the window, wondering. "And that was... it?"  
  
"That was it," confirms Sherlock.  
  
"But, don't you think," starts John, remembering Irene Adler and the way Sherlock looked at her. "Don't you think that you might just not be attracted to men?"  
  
"I'm not gay," agrees Sherlock.  
  
"Ok," says John. "So you could..."  
  
"I'm not heterosexual either."  
  
John stops. "Oh." Going by Sherlock's answers, he could mean one of a few things, but John's pretty sure he... This is the most information Sherlock's given out in a long while. For a moment, it almost feels as if John's talking to an actual human being.  
  
"Whereas you, on the other hand," says Sherlock, breaking the silence, "are very much attracted to women." He steeples his fingers and looks at John over the top of them.  
  
"Right." John frowns, disconcerted at the sudden shift of the conversation towards him.  
  
Sherlock's mouth quirks upwards. "But maybe not entirely."  
  
John inhales far too much saliva far too quickly. He sputters. "I'm not..."  
  
Sherlock's eyes are sharp. "You've considered it though."  
  
John's heart freezes. When it starts again, his cheeks are burning. "I don't believe it..." John stares at Sherlock. "For God's sake! You've been going through my browser history again, haven't you?"  
  
Sherlock grins at him. "No need." He leans forward. "Interesting. So you have considered it?"  
  
John's not sure whether to punch him or shoot him or both. No point in lying though. Grudgingly, John admits, "Yes."  
  
"Hmmm." Sherlock casts his eye about the room. "Considered it with anyone in particular?"  
  
"Sherlock," warns John.  
  
With a smirk, Sherlock looks him in the eye. "Considered it with your flatmate, perhaps?"  
  
Embarrassment flares through John's cheeks like a fever, probably more telling than any confession. He folds his arms, clenches his jaw and glares at the wall.  
  
Sherlock chuckles.  
  
"Look," starts John.  
  
"I would be willing, you know," says Sherlock. "If you wanted."  
  
John turns to him, astounded. "You..."  
  
Sherlock holds his gaze. "Can't say I'd enjoy it much, but I'd put up with it. For you."  
  
And John doesn't know how to feel about that. He swallows, smiles, and says, "Er, thank you, Sherlock, but..."  
  
Sherlock frowns.  
  
"I'm not interested. In you. In that way." John looks at him. "I..."  
  
"But..." starts Sherlock.  
  
"I'm not gay," clarifies John. He sighs. "Look, at one point I thought I might be. God knows, I've never been attracted to men in my life, but then I met you, and..." John gestures at him. "You're captivating, Sherlock. And quick and brilliant and I've never met anyone like you before. I've never felt..." John swallows. "You're special, Sherlock. Special enough that I thought I might... I don't know." John licks his lips. "So I looked into it. I thought about it. Have been thinking about it, a lot, because I wanted to make sure, but..." John looks Sherlock in the eye. "I'm not attracted to you, Sherlock. Not sexually."  
  
Slowly, Sherlock sits back. "Oh," he says.  
  
"I'm sorry," says John. "It doesn't mean you're not important to me, because you are. You're..."  
  
Sherlock frowns some more. "But she said..."  
  
And suddenly, everything sharpens into focus. "Wait," says John. "This is all because of a text you've received, isn't it?" He almost laughs in disbelief and throws an incredulous glance in Sherlock's direction. "What's she been telling you?"  
  
Sherlock has the decency to look guilty.  
  
"Listen, Sherlock," John looks him in the eye, "you're more important to me than anything. But that doesn't mean that I want to sleep with you, no matter what anyone says." John thinks about it for a moment and comes to a conclusion that almost surprises him. Almost. "Although," John says carefully, "I think I can reciprocate your offer." He smiles at Sherlock. "I can't guarantee I'd be into it, but I'd be willing, Sherlock, if you ever wanted to."  
  
Sherlock stares at John for a moment, then gives him a smile in return.


End file.
